


Today Is a Small Eternity

by Dangereuse



Series: Tomarry D&D-athon [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Edge of Tomorrow AU, Groundhog Day, Harry is a Little Shit, He's hot and he knows it, He's just so sick of this ONE DAY, He's not cut out for dying ok, Human AU, M/M, They die but it doesn't stick, Time Loop, Tom Is A Dick, and probably gross, but it is violent, doesn't Fate know better than to pick him as the hero?, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangereuse/pseuds/Dangereuse
Summary: Tom had always thought immortality would come with a lot less dying.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Tomarry D&D-athon [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692079
Comments: 4
Kudos: 120





	Today Is a Small Eternity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duplicity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/gifts).



The worst part is that Harry never remembers him.

***

Tom is holding Harry’s guts in. Harry’s in so much pain his eyes aren’t tracking, and a bubble of blood forms at his lips. It pops and droplets flick onto Tom’s face. It doesn’t matter. What’s a little more blood?

“Go,” Harry wheezes, and Tom’s genuinely impressed he made actual sound, with the state his diaphragm _isn’t_ in. He lackadaisically waves one hand, before he realizes that it’s missing and just. _Stops_. “We both know this doesn’t matter.”

Tom nods. It doesn’t matter, not really. But it also does, to Tom, so Tom stops applying pressure with his hands and waits for that glow in Harry’s eyes to die before he moves on.

***

Tom used to be terrified of dying. He’s not anymore. He’s done it so many times, so many different ways. How can you be afraid of something that happens _every day_?

***

“How did you get it to _stop_?” Tom asks, desperate, the first time he meets Harry.

Harry takes a deep breath, caps an Inferi over Tom’s shoulder. The way he moves is unreal. His voice is casual. “I got injured, real bad, but not enough to die right away. I passed out and the field medics got me. They bled me out, until it was red again.” Another burst of fire, another dropped horde of Inferi. Tom isn’t sure if he’s full of envy or dread.

“It hurt so bad I thought I died for real,” Harry laughs, cheerfully, and shoots another one. 

***

“We should fuck,” Tom states. He’s staring at the nape of Harry’s neck, at the line of clean-looking skin at Harry’s hairline where his sweat has pushed away the grime. He wants to lick it. Or bite it. He’s not picky.

Harry glares at him out of the corner of his eye, still maintaining good coverage with his gun. It’s pointless. There aren’t any Inferi until they hit the second outbuilding, and Tom will kill those three.

“I’m going to go with no, Riddle. And I’m not even flattered.” Harry’s voice is dry, but Tom knows him so well he can tell he’s amused despite himself.

Tom shrugs, like he doesn’t want this almost as bad as he wants the morrow. “We have before,” he lies.

Harry shakes his head, obviously exasperated. There’s a smile on the corners of his lips. Tom loves that smile. “I don’t believe you.”

Tom shouldn’t be surprised. Tom is new to Harry every day, but he still hasn’t managed to successfully lie to him even once. Every day, Harry just looks up from where Tom blows the Inferi off of him, says a small, ‘Oh, you too?’, and follows him off the battlefield. Just like that. Still, Tom’s offended, more than he should be.

“What, you don’t think you would ever condescend to bed me? You’re straight?” Tom snarls. “I’m not ‘your type’?”

“No.” Harry’s smiling outright now, and it takes the edge of Tom’s anger, just like that. “I think I’ve been waiting. I’ll keep waiting. I’ll wait until it will motivate you the most,” he says, sly, eyes gleaming.

***

“Good luck today, Tom,” Harry wishes him, voice soft. Tom can’t feel his body, can’t move his legs. The Inferi are screaming for flesh, and Tom can hear them getting closer. They have one bullet. Harry puts the barrel of his service pistol to Tom’s forehead and pulls the trigger.

***

Dumbledore twinkles at him, the rat bastard, and tells him he’s needed on the front lines, to boost morale. Tom declines. That’s not what he _does_. He’s handsome and he knows it. His father had abandoned him, left him only a face, but it’s a damn good one, and he’s used it to stay invaluable and thus _invulnerable_ , in the war. Tom does recruitment and public relations and social media relations. He _does not fight_.

Dumbledore twinkles and twinkles until he stops. Tom ends up in the front lines anyway.

***

Tom vomits after he kills his first Inferi. It’s not because it looks almost human, despite being over pale with a strange triangle circle amalgamation on its brow. He’s killed humans before— _father. grandfather. grandmother—_ and he didn’t puke then. He’d felt high, as close to believing in God that he’d ever been. It had felt addictive and heady and _right_ and he’d decided right then he’d never do it again because otherwise he’d never stop.

No, Tom vomits because the creature explodes into viscous black sludge, splattering his nose and mouth, squirting on his tongue. The fluid tastes like anise and motor oil and Tom knows the instant he tastes it everything is _wrong._ He dies for the first time, fifteen minutes later, teeth still stained black.

***

He and Harry are in a tiny cabin. Tom plucks a shotgun from inside the pantry and some buckshot from a drawer in the bathroom. He hands both to Harry.

Harry smiles at him, wan. He’s tired, and Tom knows he’s in pain all up his side from being thrown by the Inferi. “Thanks, Tom.”

Tom kisses him, brief, his mouth scorching hot against Tom's own. He’s been cold, so very cold, ever since he started dying. He’s not sure if it’s psychological or because there is black sludge to replace the blood in his chest.

Harry’s smile brightens, his cheeks the tiniest bit red. “Thanks for that too.”

***

Dumbledore doesn’t believe them about the Deathly Hallows. He calls Harry his boy and fixes Tom tea and listens as Tom drags up his whole life history from Gellert and his baby Aryan group to his poor sister and the hospice incidents.

He doesn’t and doesn’t and doesn’t and doesn’t, until Tom presses a kiss to Harry’s brow and pushes Harry’s gun down and asks him not to shoot, that doesn’t work, please love. He’s not sure if he even means it. He’s so sick of Dumbledore’s twinkle.

Dumbledore hands over the Deathstick Harry had confiscated from the Inferi. After that Tom remembers the goddamned safe combination.

***

The Resurrection Stone Tom knows by now to pry out of the forehead of that first Inferi he killed, and still kills. He has to be quick about it, because every day Harry’s nearly half the field away, every day Harry’s got an Inferi poised over his neck for Tom to punt off of him.

He gets very fast.

***

“I just don’t know where the Cloak is,” Tom whispers. He and Harry are playing hooky today, pretending the lights in the sky are fireworks instead of mortar and heavy artillery fire.

Harry’s head is heavy on Tom’s shoulder. He’s crying, silent with it, eyes so swollen Tom can only see slits of green. It’s so painful for him to sit here, Tom doesn’t think he’ll ever ask Harry to do this again, no matter how many more years this stretches.

He folds his arm around Harry, squeezes him tight. He presses a kiss to Harry’s hair. It smells good for once, from their selfish shower. His brain doesn’t quite know how to reconcile it as Harry. 

***

The Cloak is in the Inferi’s Spawn Maw. Tom and Harry scope it out over the course of three days, and his stomach flips when he sees the pattern, or lack of one.

The few Inferi he and Harry kill at the Maw don’t recycle. For the first time, since this never ending day began, _something different is happening._

It’s only at the Maw, but that’s enough. Time doesn’t reset there. A fear he thought long dead _—ha!_ rekindles in his belly. 

Harry gets it a good while after he does, when they retreat, after Tom zips him into a shared sleeping bag and curls up beside him, breathing in the scent of his filthy hair. He’s exhausted, bone deep, but he fights the urge to sleep, choosing instead to savor these last moments with Harry, before Tom goes to shoot himself and they cycle back around. His mind has honed and honed and honed itself, but his body is still the same as that first day, fit but not hardened with it.

Harry goes perfectly still. He takes Tom’s hand in between his, grip tight. Tom knows if he looked, he’d see Harry’s fingers dimpling hard enough to blanch Tom’s skin even paler white. “Promise me, Tom. Promise me you won’t do it alone.”

Tom nuzzles deep into Harry’s hair. It smells _awful_ , like blood and burnt gunpowder and Harry’s drying fear sweat. He breathes in deeper and doesn’t reply.

Harry always knows when he’s lying, after all.

***

They’re back at the cabin. Tom leaves the shotgun and the buckshot where they are. He takes a step towards Harry instead.

“Please,” Tom whispers. He gently pulls an empty gun from Harry’s hands, then hooks his fingers into the curls of Harry’s belt loops. He pulls Harry to him, gentle. “Please,” he repeats. In another time, another life, he’d have never said that word, never could have meant it. But this one day has become a new lifetime, and he means it now.

Harry melts to him, body going soft, pliant. He holds Tom’s face in his hands. They’re gritty and acrid-smelling from gunpowder. Tom rubs his cheeks against them, presses kisses against the calluses on the inside of his palms. 

“Please, Harry, let me have you.” He whispers into Harry’s skin. “Let me remember this for the both of us,” he pleads. He pulls Harry closer, grinds his hips, slow. “ _Let me_.”

“Okay,” Harry nods. “Okay.” He kisses Tom back.

***

In the end, the Spawn Maw’s is just as horrific as he never could have imagined.

He does end up taking Harry, if only because he can’t fucking shake him after punting that Inferi off his almost-corpse, and he _refuses_ to fix a future where Harry dies _._ He can’t shake Harry, so he also ends up taking a ragtag bunch of deserters he quite literally stumbled across about five years in todays ago instead of just stealing their Semtex. They’re _crazy_ , and it takes less than fifteen minutes of convincing before they’re game.

“Groundhog Day!” The crazy curly haired woman who runs the group gleefully crows. She shot and killed him the first time, and Tom literally _just_ saw her put a blasting cap in her mouth and bite down, so he thinks it’s understandable he misses her name. Stranger, maybe?

There are more Inferi in this maw than Tom could ever imagined, and half of the deserters are gone before they even get inside.

Inside holds a huge pool of black liquid, like the sludge Tom holds in his veins. It’s still, still, until one of the deserters trips as one of the Inferi tries to rip off his arms and falls in. Then Inferi come pouring out, more bodies than that slick black morass could possibly hold.

The Cloak doesn’t turn out to be an object in quite the way the Stone and the Deathstick are, but more like a thick fur-like _thing_ grown into a giant Inferi’s skin. The giant’s marked with the same bastardized circle triangle as that very first Inferi he killed and kills. He and Harry end up kneeling on the shrieking Inferi’s too many jointed limbs as Stranger-maybe laughs madly and flays it.

She’s barely ripped the last stretch of the Cloak free in a burst of anise and motor oil when even more Inferi pour in. She’s still laughing and holding it triumphantly aloft as she dies. Harry pulls the Cloak from her hands, and there’s no time.

“Riddle,” Harry stares at him with wide eyes. Tom hasn’t kissed his lips once today and he feels the lack like a split in his soul. Harry passes him the Cloak. “There’s no time.”

There are neatly packed blocks of Semtex in the backpack Stranger-maybe was carrying. Tom has the Stone and the Deathstick in his own, and the thick morass of the Cloak dripping in his hands.

Tom ignores the startled look in Harry’s eyes when he takes Harry’s hand for the boom.

*** 

Tom wakes up. His body is not sore and the sun is shining. It’s not today. Tom looks around, and with some distant dim recognition supposes it might be _yesterday_. He’s not certain if this is better or _worse_ , until he notices the people sort of milling about, stunned and aimless.

“The Inferi just keeled over and stopped moving,” one woman tells him, somewhat stunned. Tom lets her go, stunned himself.

His hand bleeds red when he cuts it. Tom could laugh in sheer joy.

It takes an interminable three hours to _find him_.

“Harry Potter.” Tom calls out, knowing better than to startle Harry. He can’t stop smiling. It feels unnatural on his face.

Harry jerks up from where he’s polishing his gun, looks Tom up and down. He smiles back.

“Oh, you too?”


End file.
